


A Game of Two Sides

by devitaexire



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Chess, M/M, Object Insertion, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-03
Updated: 2011-08-03
Packaged: 2017-10-22 04:17:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/233656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devitaexire/pseuds/devitaexire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik has always been one to push boundaries, their nightly ritual soon becomes nothing different.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Game of Two Sides

Truly, it begins the moment the kids happen to have a mishap in the study. Hank is testing the versatility of fabrics against Alex’s lazers, with varying degrees of success, but the mishap comes not in the form of a blinding beam of light, but rather a body. Not a human body, a mannequin, but even so, Alex misjudges his strength and sends the plastic model crashing through a second floor window, utterly destroying Charles’ study. (Inventory needing replaced is one lamp, an antique that Charles doesn’t care much for above the fact that no one was hurt, or worse, discovered by the accident.)

More importantly, Erik thinks, when they come to play chess that evening is the sudden absence of two rooks, a bishop and a badly maimed knight. Armies suffering casualties, both men are forced to call off their nightly battle in favour of each other’s company, and if Erik can find it in himself to complain when Charles breathes his name like a song when he comes, that part of him is small and easily silenced.

When he wakes, he presses a brief kiss to a sleeping Charles’ temple and promises to endeavour to return before the telepath wakes. He tears out of the mansion on a newly-bought _Royal Enfield Interceptor_ and heads into the nearest city, an hour away. Contrary to what some might believe, Erik is scarcely sentimental, and carrying around a bar of Nazi gold was less than practical, and had left him with a small fortune that would be no doubt spent quietly on more practical pursuits. It had set him back more than he’d normally have paid for anything not absolutely necessary, but he adores being able to sit astride the engine and feel it purr better beneath his fingertips than any car ever could.

Unfortunately, between his search and traffic, he returns in the late afternoon to find Charles pottering in the garden, watching the kids play with a frisbee. The telepath looks him over and raises his eyebrows as Erik rumbles into the parking garage, but if he finds anything odd about him, he doesn’t project his curiosity into Erik’s unguarded mind.

Erik, for his part, ignores Charles for the time being to place his new acquisition in the study, pausing only in his travels to slide into the kitchen and grab a beer from the fridge before joining Charles on the patio.

“You left in rather a hurry this morning,” He says, blue eyes glancing down at the bottle in Erik’s hand, a small smile touching too-red lips as the German crumples the bottlecap from the top of the bottle with his mind alone, the small, newly-formed ball of metal dropping into his pocket for disposal later.

“What, no hello?” Erik deflects, and Charles has the good English manners to look suitably embarrassed at that, a flush setting high across his cheekbones, kissing across the bridge of his nose. He sniffs somewhat ashamedly, though doesn’t cease with his smiling, and doesn’t move to correct it. Erik feels something of approval curl warm and familiar in his gut, and bobs his head, his gaze levelling out towards the children.

“You didn’t bring me a drink,” The telepath is smiling wider now, a mischievous expression bearing down across his pale features, and Erik finds himself huffing a soft laugh in spite of it, rising to Charles’ challenge of verbal sparring with “You didn’t ask.”

“I didn’t know,”

“You’re a telepath,”

“You asked me to stay out of your head.” Erik nods at this and shrugs his shoulders, turning his attention to his drink for a moment, seemingly in thought. Charles watches him all the while, cerulean eyes looking over him as one might some kind of creature in a zoo—No, Erik decides, he knows what that feels like, and Charles would _never_ look at another being, mutant or otherwise, like that. (Because he knows Charles knows, whether through his own feelings or Raven’s or Hank’s or any of them, what it is to be hated for your blood and appearance.) Charles looks at him as though he’s some kind of mystery, and Erik finds that a novel thought, that Charles, who knows everything about him, still doesn’t have it in him to _understand_ Erik.

Erik’s thankful for that. He, whilst knowing that they’re so very far from normal, sometimes yearns for a base level of normalcy, one that comes in the form of being able to trust people enough to _tell_ them of himself, not having them read it from his mind or a case file. It’s never something he’s had before, trusting someone, and he finds that sometimes it’s something he’d like to try. (And if anyone could make him want to try, it’s Charles Xavier, with his bright, hopeful smile and bright, hopeful mind and bright, hopeful ideas for the world.)

“To answer your opening statement, I took it upon myself to replace your chess set.” He hums, and Charles blinks owlishly in the sunlight, confusion passing his gaze.

“You didn’t have to do that, my friend, but thank you nonetheless. I believe we’re behind one game..?” The invitation is left open, and it’s one that Erik takes with a nod, his fingers itching to curl around Charles’ hand and brush his fingertips against the ring Charles is wearing on his left index finger, the silver watch that Erik can _feel_ tick-tick-ticking away seconds between them, the cuff-links that were a gift from Raven. The moment passes, and Erik’s hand remains by his hip, even as he’s turning and walking inside.

They take up seat in the study, and Erik goes to the liberty of unpacking the new chess-set. Charles’ eyes widen beautifully when his brilliant mind comes to the sudden realization of why Erik made it his personal business to buy a new chess set. The entire thing is cast in metal. The white pieces are formed of flawless polished platinum, the curve of each smooth and perfect and so unbroken and unblemished that Charles can see his own reflection in them. The black pieces are dark, smoky steel, the light glinting off of them and casting an oil-slick rainbow over each one. Each piece is a little larger than standard chess pieces, a little larger than the foldable travel-chess set Charles had used before from his days at University, clearly meant to be displayed.

Charles’ fingers, Erik notices, almost seem to shake as he moves the first piece. Erik counters it with an elegant twist of his own long fingers, and Charles seemingly cannot decide whether it would be better to watch his lover’s hands in motion, or the pieces that move themselves. They’re not half way through playing when Charles’ mind is suffering under the unique, strange beauty of Erik’s gift, the way his hands dance in the air as he manipulates each piece with expert precision. Erik watches the dip of Charles’ adams apple as he swallows self-consciously, before he’s shifting the table aside to pull Charles into a long, slow kiss.

Charles responds like he’s only been waiting for it all day, a tiny squeak of surprise startling from him before it’s swept up in a moan that Erik is only too happy to taste, his tongue flicking its way into Charles’ mouth. Whenever they do this, Erik plays Charles like an instrument, his fingers sliding beneath the professor’s clothes before either of them realize it’s happening, because Charles is beautiful and a pale clean canvas, and Erik is an artist, a painter, a sculptor, and if he can memorize Charles’ form absolutely, he’ll sculpt a twin exactly like him and even after Charles has decided, much the same way the world has, that he’s tired of the broken toy Erik Lehnsherr makes, Erik will have Charles forever.

Erik knows Charles is listening when he stifles a half-sob of both pleasure and denial against the cushion as Erik turns him around on the chair. He pulls Charles’ hips into the air and Charles hasn’t even noticed that he’s naked, too swept up in Erik’s ever-present sense of loss. Erik is learning, though, and he uses that distraction, (Charles’ fixation on his _feelings_ ,) to retrieve a jar of something slick and cool of which the label’s long since peeled off. It’s seconds before he’s pressing his long, elegant, work-roughened fingers into Charles, the telepath squirming and shoving his hips backwards, breath escaping him in tiny, measured pants.

Erik’s grin widens into something shark-like and predatory when Charles moans at the loss of his fingers, shifting restlessly in the chair, his head tipped to rest against the plush back, hiding his eyes from view while Erik works, first, on removing his own clothing, secondly—Charles doesn’t know what Erik’s doing, and Erik knows it, but the way Charles shoves his hips reflexively forwards, the curve of his cock smacking wetly against his thigh when Erik uses nothing but his mind to press the smooth length of the black queen piece into him, is utterly captivating. Erik’s thoughts scatter like stars, and where others would be afraid of losing the piece to the tightening of Charles’ muscles, Erik knows intimately where it settles, growing warm with Charles’ heat, feels it press its smooth cap bluntly against the man’s prostate.

It’s not thick, nor long, and not at all satisfying, the teasing evident from the way Charles shifts and whines, his toes curling in the air even as Erik’s fingers are twitching, slowly fucking the piece into him, drawing a startled little grunt each time, but watching Charles twitch and tense around it, _feeling_ it like an extension of himself has Erik’s cock jerking upwards, almost painfully close to coming from the sound and sight and sensation alone.

A twist of his hand brings it corkscrewing tightly against Charles’ prostate, the smaller man crying out as his orgasm takes him completely by surprise, hips pistoning forwards, the psychic backlash of it completely blindsiding Erik and sweeping him along in its tsunami wave of pleasure, completely incapable of doing everything but cling helplessly to Charles’ hips and rest his cheek in the small of his back, carefully guiding the chess piece away and back to the set.

(And in the days that follow, it’ll become a game in its own right, Erik will march and conquer and with each piece he takes, it will find a place inside Charles until he’s claimed each and every one of them, and they’ve been thoroughly used in every sense of the word. And if he’s feeling benevolent, he might even extend the rules in Charles’ favour, allowing the telepath’s clumsy, physical attempts to replicate Erik’s motion with nothing at his disposal but his own hands.)

And maybe half of it is the fact that in days to come they’ll play with this set again and again, and each day Charles will sit and watch Erik’s fingers stroke lovingly over the piece, each day Erik will manipulate it and the both of them will know exactly how it was christened, a moment shared perfectly between them and them alone. And even after Erik is banished from Charles’ life as he no doubt will sooner or later, however many chess matches Charles may have with however many people after Erik is gone, this piece, right here, will be Erik’s, the metal moulded with his own control and Charles’ heat and both of their desire.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the kink bingo prompt "pervertibles"


End file.
